


Colder Than You

by Sailing_ShipWreck



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bad Parents Maggie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Bill Denbrough & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Blood, Boys In Love, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Gay Richie Tozier, Gay Stanley Uris, Heartbreak, Homophobic Language, Hurt, Hurt Richie Tozier, Hypothermia, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Richie Tozier, Pining, Richie Angst, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie Tozier Needs a Hug, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie Tozier-centric, Sad Richie Tozier, Sad Stanley Uris, Soft Richie Tozier, Stanley Uris Has OCD, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, Stozier, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Violence, Vomiting, alcoholic parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21908026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sailing_ShipWreck/pseuds/Sailing_ShipWreck
Summary: Jealousy trapped Richie again in its iron grip, like vicious vines curling around his ankles and growing up around the rest of his body, festering and unstoppable. Contaminating his skin with its pernicious and deadly poison. It should have been him, the one who made Stan laugh, who had his hand on his shoulder, who kissed him.Or, Richie realizes his feelings for his best friend
Relationships: Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 18
Kudos: 95





	1. It Should've Been Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first multi-chaptered fit and i'll try to update as soon as possible, but it is possible that it won't be constant, like every week, because sometimes i'm very busy and some other times I have absolutely nothing to do. All of this to say that i'll try to avoid making you wait for too long.
> 
> This is a Stozier fanfic
> 
> This story will get hard at some point, so please read the tags, all the trigger warnings are there. By the way, some tags will be added as the fic goes on.
> 
> hope you enjoy!!!!
> 
> *sorry for the mistakes

Richie exited his Spanish class in a rush, eager to get out of the school and maybe hang out with his friends. He made a stop to his locker, dumped his notebooks in his backpack and slammed the locker’s door loudly. He made his way through the thick crowd of high school students, earning himself groans and insults when he bumped a little too hard on someone. It was like trying to go against the powerful current of the water of the Kenduskeag river. He dodged around the people’s bodies, attempting to avoid being rubbed on unknown, sweaty skin as he darted in the hallways.

He finally reached his destination: Stanley’s row of lockers. Stan was there, organizing his books in his school bag methodically and Richie was about to sneak up on him when another boy tapped gently on Stan’s shoulder. Stan turned around and his face lighted up like a fucking Christmas tree. Richie could read genuine pleasure and friendliness on his traits. Stan began talking to the other teenager, a bright smile plastered on his face. Richie recognized the dude as a kid in their French class. A protective instinct for Stan washed over him, without him understanding from where it was coming from and why.

Richie backed away slowly, eyes glued on the two boys, and hid behind the corner of the row of lockers. He realized in an almost disconnected way, like he was floating out of his body and watching the scene unfurling in front of him from another perspective, that he should probably go away and continue his life without getting his nose in other people’s business. He was actually spying on Stanley, his best friend of all people. God, he was so stupid. The thought that he was acting like a five years old crossed his mind, and even though he wasn’t so proud of it, he didn’t move an inch.

He observed very carefully the boy, who he recalled was named David. He was kinda cute, with fluffy black hair and deep blue irises. He had a couple of tiny pimples on the forehead, like basically almost all the teenagers their age, but except for that, he was flawless. Richie also knew for a fact that David had very good grades, enough to be first of class in almost all the subjects. Not in French though. That was Richie. David was taller than Stan by a few centimeters, and he wasn’t too slim or too fat. He was clean and well-dressed, with a face that wasn’t ruined by a pair of large glasses. In other words, he was perfect for Stanley Uris.

Richie shook his head, attempting to clear his mind from those irrational thoughts. This boy wasn’t Stan’s boyfriend just because he visited him at his locker. After all, Stan was straight(well he thought) and David was probably just asking a question on a homework or a project. Anyway, why would Richie care? Stan could date anyone he wanted.

The boy leaned in and whispered something in Stan’s ear. The curly-haired teen’s eyes gleamed, and his smile got so wide that Richie wondered quite nastily if his face was going to split in the middle. His heart clenched at the sight, causing an unpleasant sting to appear in his chest. Stan’s laugh resonated in the now-empty school, and for the first time, Richie didn’t enjoy the cheerful sound. The faint burn in his heart grew into a painful cramp.

Richie recognized the emotion to be jealousy, but he didn’t understand why he was feeling that way. After a moment of reflection, he associated it with the fear of being replaced. Yeah, that was right, it was only because he was scared to lose his best friend. That was all.

Then, why did his face burn with anger when the boy placed his hand on Stan’s shoulder and left it there? His chest constricted suddenly and he wanted to burst out of his hideout and scream until David ran away in fear of being attacked by a madman in Hawaïan shirt. He wanted David to leave. Something horrible bubbled up inside his throat, an emotion that Richie couldn’t quite place: an ugly, destructive, cruel and acrid feeling simmering inside of him, threatening to spill out. A terrible desire of perfidious revenge completely seized him over, saturating his heart with bitterness and resentment.

He wanted David to be _gone._

It hit him so hard that he was afraid, for a moment. Was he becoming some kind of monster, one that turned red with rage as soon as some innocent kid approached his friends? Or worse, was he transforming into Mrs. K, who loved only in a possessive and toxic manner, who wanted to keep her loved ones only for _herself?_

He stumbled back at the thought, horrified, and caught sight of Stan and David exchanging a kiss as he did so. Richie’s heart fractured into thousands of pieces and he felt the little fragments fall to his feet. Jealousy trapped him again, harder this time, in its iron-like grip, like vicious vines curling around his ankles and growing up around the rest of his body, festering and unstoppable. Contaminating his skin with its pernicious and deadly poison. It should have been him, the one who made Stan laugh, who had his hand on his shoulder, who _kissed_ him. The thought alone gave him the impression that he was being set on fire and scorching heat traveled in his body from his face to his toes, culminating in his stomach. He wished he had simply decided to wait for Stan outside instead of going to his locker.

Stan’s head twisted in his direction and they made eye contact. It was like the Earth had stopped spinning on its axis, like the whole universe had been set on pause by a huge TV remote. Time slowed down, as if waiting for the two boys to realize something. This concept was actually pretty vague, because anybody else passing by at this moment, David for instance, would have just seen a brief glance. For Stan and Richie though, it felt like it lasted a lifetime. This moment could have even seemed eternal if Stan hadn’t shaken himself out of it. The world began moving again. The seconds that conveyed the impression of having been stretched to impossible proportions shrunk back to their normal length and it all came rushing back at a bull charging at a red flag's speed. Stan broke the kiss and Richie stared at the two boys like a deer caught in headlights(or deadlights).

David turned around too and he and Richie scrutinized each other, one with big curious eyes and the other with a heated glare. The other teen’s innocent, dreamy and _satisfied_ face infuriated Richie to a point he never thought was possible. He had to fight down the urge to shove the guy aside and take his place beside Stanley.

David’s traits showed genuine innocence and surprise, meaning that he had absolutely no bad intentions, but Richie just felt like he was a volcano about to erupt, about to expel sweltering, red-orange lava by his eyes, mouth, and nostrils. The teen’s expression made Richie want to erase it and replace it with one that mirrored his own: one of pain. Richie observed David grab Stan’s arm and tug him slightly behind in a protective manner, as if he thought Richie was dangerous.

_Maybe I am,_ the bespectacled boy thought.

However, his anger flowed down the drain at the reflection and he was flooded by another emotion, an emotion that he was unable to decipher. Tears welled up in his eyes, magnified for everyone to see by those hateful, hateful glasses. He spun on his heels before they could fall.

“Richie!” He heard Stan call behind him, but he didn’t stop running. As soon as he was out of sight, he let the tears trail down his cheeks freely, staining his face with sadness. He went in the direction of the bike racks, where his friends were waiting for him, without a doubt getting impatient, but he thought better of it. Instead, he headed for the East Entrance, which was on the opposite side of school.

He stopped running and sat down, trying to understand why he was so upset. He dug in his mind for a reason, but soon enough find out that it didn’t really make sense. But, there must have been a logic somewhere to justify why he experienced those feelings so intensely. There needed to be. He had never felt that overwhelmed by emotions before: he was fairly excellent to keep his feelings on check. Usually, he was able to push them deep down inside of him and to restrain them from creeping back up. It worked wonderfully. Except for today, apparently. It had been like everything he had stashed down had inflated in his chest and blew up in an incredibly devastating explosion.

A reasonable explanation popped up in his mind. It was probably because Stan didn’t tell him. Yeah, exactly. They were best friends since they were four years old and best friends were supposed to tell each other everything, especially these kinds of secrets. So, he was right to be mad. Stan hid something from him and he discovered it the worst way possible, by being placed directly in front of the fact without any tact, so that was why he was feeling so betrayed.

Satisfied by that conclusion but chest still heavy with an invisible weight, he dried his tears the best he could and got up from the floor. He speed-walked to the West Entrance without dawdling and released a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he glimpsed the Losers standing by the bike racks, still waiting for him.

“Where the fuck were you?” Eddie asked harshly, making a step forward in his direction.

“Yeah, I looked for you everywhere,” Stan added as he shuffled almost imperceptibly closer to Richie. The boy in question looked everywhere except at the other teen.

“Wait, are you okay?” Beverly’s voice was laced with concern. Eddie looked confused at the question, but it didn’t take long before the scowl left his face as he got a better glance at Richie.

“Are you… were you crying?” He said with a frown. Richie supposed his eyes were still puffy from earlier and he cursed mentally.

“What? No, of course not! I surprised your mom a little, sprayed me with pepper, is all,” Richie denied and Eddie groaned and flipped him off in response.

“Beep Beep Rich,” Ben said, but sent an amused smile his way nonetheless.

Richie risked a glance in Stan’s direction and noticed the curly-haired boy staring at him with a worried expression. Their gazes connected and Richie whipped his head to look away as fast as if he’d been burned.

The seven teens unlocked their bikes from the rack and started walking beside them, talking excitedly with each other. Unusually, Richie stayed silent, head hung low, keeping an acceptable distance between his friends and himself to avoid looking suspect. He didn’t feel like joking around, for once.

Stan let the others walk past him, seemed to hesitate, but then stayed apart from the Losers but still in front of Richie.

“Hey Stan, don’t you have something to tell us?” Beverly exclaimed suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. She slowed down to stand beside Stan and stared at him intently. The others looked intrigued.

“What are you talking about?” Stan at least had the decency to look confused. Richie had the feeling that he knew exactly what Bev was talking about. He really didn’t want to hear the conversation that was about to follow.

“I saw you with that cutie, David I think, during lunch,” Bev’s smile was mischievous.

“And?” Stan asked like the answer wasn’t obvious.

“Are you two dating?” Of course, Bev had noticed. She saw everything. Now, the whole Losers Club was paying attention.

“It’s none of your business,” Stan replied, tone clipped and sounding annoyed but eyes shining with amusement.

“Tell us! We want to know, right Rich?” Bev said, trying to include Richie in the conversation since she had remarked he was being quiet.

“What?” Richie snapped out of his thoughts, which were already focused on Stan and David’s relationship.

“We want to know if Stan is dating David. Right?” Beverly repeated slowly, gazing over at him with a quizzical frown like she couldn’t understand him.

_No, Bev. We don’t. I don’t want to know more than what I already saw,_ Richie thought. He noticed that Stan was staring at him with a weird expression, a mix of guilt and hope, and he realized he still hadn’t answered.

“Right,” He said.

Bill turned his head to look at him. Richie stared right back, unwavering. Bill seemed to find what he was looking for because he reported his attention to Stanley. Eddie whispered something to Ben. Richie suddenly felt uneasy and he wanted his friends to stop studying him and to change the subject.

_They’ll know,_ his mind murmured and he felt strange because he really didn’t understand what that thought meant. He saw Stan open his mouth to speak from the corner of his eye, and suddenly, he really didn’t want to be there anymore. He didn’t want to hear Stan’s answer, he didn’t want to feel more awful than he already did and he didn't want to have more questions to ask himself for that matter. He didn’t want to know if Stan and David were dating, if he was important or not, or if they were fucking engaged. It didn’t matter if David was just a fuckfriend or if they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. It changed nothing at all, because it still wasn’t _him._ Richie didn’t feel like pretending anymore.

“I gotta go now. Bye!” He said, jumping on his bike and starting to pedal away.

“Wait, what?!” Bev yelled after him and he turned his head to see his friends’ stunned faces. He twisted his head back to look at the road in front of him just in time to avoid colliding with a parked car. He didn’t look back.


	2. Take My Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's chapter 2! Hope you enjoy it!!!
> 
> TW: Blood, alcohol abuse, violence, child abuse, suicidal thoughts 
> 
> Be careful

Richie rode home like he had the devil on his heels. It was almost the end of the autumn: they were in the beginning of December. The sun was low and the sky was painted in beautiful pastel colors: blue, pink and everything in between. The air was cold enough that his breath formed little clouds of fog when he exhaled. The leaves had all fallen from the trees and were now scattered on the ground, dead and rotting. The concrete was still wet from the rain of the afternoon and the road was slippery. Richie didn’t care, to hell the safety measures! It wasn’t important if he fell down and hurt himself. It wasn’t as if someone would care.

He dumped his bike in the garage once he arrived at his house. He entered by the front door and his glasses immediately fogged up.

“Hello?” He said, though he wasn’t expecting a reply. The house stayed silent. He let his backpack slide down his shoulder and his arm and it hit the floor with a loud ‘thump’. He made his way into the kitchen, purposely being noisy. Only the silence answered him. He opened the fridge with a sigh and slammed the door shut when he saw that it was empty. He checked the cupboards next, but there was nothing except a can of rotten pineapples. He sighed again, longer and louder than before.

He went into the living room and saw his mom’s sleeping form on the couch, a vodka bottle in her hand. Richie turned the radio on, as well as the TV because he couldn’t stand the silence. He hated it. It made him feel so lonely and it was even worse knowing that he wasn’t, because there was someone else in the house, only that person was too passed out from alcohol overconsumption to talk to him.

He augmented the volume to the maximum. It wasn’t as if his mom would notice. He began picking up the old beer bottles scattered on the floor and on the little table near his dad’s chair. He carelessly made the glass cling by knocking the bottles together when he lifted them from the floor. His mom didn’t even stir at the sound.

He dropped one of the bottles by accident and it shattered into sharp little pieces when it smashed on the ground. He started cleaning the mess, frustrated because of his blunder, and some of the glass shards lodged themselves in the skin of his palm. It was the same palm Bill had sliced with that piece of Coke bottle when they made their blood oath. Richie winced at the sudden sting and watched in a disconnected manner as the blood oozed out of the wound. A couple of drops dripped on the carpet. His mom didn’t wake up when he let out a groan of pain.

He ran up the stairs to the bathroom and smashed his hand on the switch to turn on the light, leaving a bloody smudge behind. He rummaged in the cabinet above the sink, searching for a pair of tweezers. He found it in his mom’s old makeup bag. Richie hadn’t seen her wear makeup for at least two years.

He began pulling out the glass shards of the soft flesh of his hand, hissing slightly. A crimson red liquid stained the pristine white porcelain of the sink. One fragment was harder to remove than the others: it was so tiny that he had to move the tweezers blindly inside of his palm. He squinted and moved his hand under the light so he could see better. He finally pulled it out, ripping a piece of his skin off in the process. He held the shard of glass between the tweezers and it flashed in the yellowish light of the bathroom.

Richie startled and dropped it on the floor when he heard the door open downstairs. The sound of his dad fumbling with his keys and walking in the living room resonated. The voices on the radio shut up.

“Richard, get down here now!” His father ordered. Richie stiffened and rapidly cleaned the blood in the sink. The red liquid paled as it mixed with water, until it completely disappeared. He made his way downstairs slowly, dreadfully.

“What the hell is that?” Wentworth was pointing at the broken glass and the bloodstain on the carpet with his finger.

“Oh uh… It’s nothing,” Richie said hesitantly.

“It’s not nothing. I turn my back for five seconds and as soon as I come back my house looks like a pigsty. Care to explain?” His father asked, tone angry and exasperated.

“Well-” Richie began, but Wentworth interrupted him.

“And don’t you dare blame your mother.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing that,” Richie tried to defend himself but his voice sounded defeated, even to his own ears. “Anyway, I was picking up the bottles to clean the house before you came back and I broke one accidentally, that’s all.”

The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. Richie wanted nothing more than to get away from his father’s dark gaze, but it would only be worse if he tried to escape. They stared at each other like faience dogs, hostility visible in the air between the father and the son. They were both tense like a rubber elastic about to snap: the first because of the unjustified fury he felt toward his son and the second because of his intense dreadfulness toward what was going to happen.

“You better make that stain disappear,” His father said finally.

“I’m not sure if it’s gonna go away and I’m pretty sure we don’t possess the appropriate cleaning produ-”

“Do I look like I give a fuck?” Wentworth cut him harshly. Richie’s mouth clicked shut in surprise.

“Clean that,” His dad ordered, arms crossed over his chest.

“But-”

“Right fucking now, you brat!”

Richie didn’t have the time to swallow back his reply. “Aye, aye, Boss,” He spat out the last word, his tone arrogant and resentful, a smug smile plastered on his face like a post-it.

“What did you say?” His father growled, voice thunderous.

“Nothing.” He shrugged and Wentworth looked at him for a long moment, the silence stretching out between them, and then he walked into the kitchen. Richie started breathing normally again.

He climbed back up upstairs and went into the bathroom again, throwing open every cabinet in the hope to find something to clean the red stain. He found a sponge, but that was pretty much it. He guessed soap would do the job. He raced back in the living room and kneeled down on the carpet.

He began rubbing the stain with the sponge and realized with horror that it was spreading. He lifted the sponge, examining it to try to understand why the hell it was making the stain _bigger_ instead of _smaller_. He cursed when he saw that it was soaked with fresh blood. He hadn’t had the time to bandage his hand earlier and he hadn’t thought about it before using it to clean. After all, it was his right hand and he didn’t think it was possible for such a small wound to bleed that much.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang, followed by a sharp knock

“Go get the door, Richard!” His dad yelled from the kitchen. Richie tossed the sponge aside, a loud and exasperated sigh escaping his lips. The person knocked on the door again.

“Coming!” Richie shouted, rolling his eyes. He really didn’t have the energy to deal with visitors. He opened the door and his mouth fell open when he saw Stanley standing on the porch, a hesitant expression painted on his face.

“Hey!” Stan waved shyly. Richie didn’t move, overwhelmed by a wave of contradictory emotions.

“Are you going to keep staring at me or you’re gonna let me in?” Stan said, giggling nervously. Richie, just as nervous, glanced behind him, in direction of the kitchen. He leaned against the doorframe, trying to look casual.

“Hey, Stan the Man! Any good chucks lately?” He exclaimed with forced cheerfulness, ignoring the question altogether.

“I just wanted to talk to you. Can I come in?” Stan repeated. Richie twisted his head to look behind himself again. He didn’t want his dad to see Stan. Wentworth was already pissed off and Richie didn’t want Stan to witness how much his dad hated him, his own son, or worse, Stan being brought in a confrontation.

Richie took a step and closed the door behind him. “We’re better off staying outside,” He said, shifting his weight from a foot to another awkwardly.

“Why?” Stan narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

“Well, yo momma is still upstairs and I don’t think she had the time to dress up,” Richie answered, using one of his Voices. He said it without thinking and he couldn’t even tell which one he impersonated.

Stan looked at him dead in the eyes, unimpressed. “Rich…”

“It’s better staying outside,” He repeated softly.

“Okay, as you wish. So… I know you saw me with David earlier and I just wanted to tell you that- Wait, your hand!” Stan said, worried, as he took Richie’s hand in his own. “What happened?”

“Oh that… It’s nothing,” Richie tried to brush it off. Stan looked mildly horrified at that.

“No, it’s _not_ nothing. Rich, it’s literally dripping blood!” Stan began to examine the injury, ghosting his fingers over Richie’s pale hand. Almost unconsciously, the two boys moved closer, their foreheads brushing against each other. Stan was completely focused on checking the wound and Richie was concentrated on the way their hands were touching instead.

His fingers were tingling and he had the impression that Stan was sending electric shocks through his arm. It felt like sparks were traveling from his fingertips to his heart, like an electrical wire that short-circuited. Or like a lightning bolt coursing under his skin. It was weird, but it was amazing. Richie wanted Stan to hold his hand forever. He almost jerked back at the mere thought. He didn’t though. He looked up at Stan’s face and realized just how close they really were. A few inches closer and they would be kissing.

Richie examined Stan’s focused features and it struck him at that exact moment just how much Stan was beautiful. His traits were delicate and well-defined and it fitted his perfectionist personality. His curls looked soft and smelled like a pine forest. As cliché as it sounded, Richie wanted nothing more than to card his fingers through his dirty blonde hair. There were a couple of freckles dispersed on his nose and it was the first time Richie noticed them because they were almost invisible. Probably they were a little darker during the summer. Stan’s lips weren’t chapped like his: Richie always suspected Stan to use lip balm but the other always denied it.

Stan probably remarked that he was staring and he lifted his gaze. Their eyes met and Richie felt a wave of emotion crash down on his back. Their foreheads were glued together now. Richie felt fuzzy inside, his chest was warm and his face was way too hot: he could feel it burn, contrasting with the crisp air of the night. It was like there were flames creeping up on the internal walls of his body. Cold shivers went down his spine as hot flashes heated his blood.

Stan’s eyes were wonderful, circled by long eyelashes. The color in his irises looked like it was swirling, like there was a snowstorm in his eyes. Richie felt himself tip over in them, sinking deeper and deeper. It was similar to drowning in thick melted chocolate. The weirdest thing was that he didn’t want to swim back to the surface.

However, he was harshly pulled back to reality when the door of his house opened. The two boys still had their hands linked and their foreheads connected. Wentworth was looking at them, lips set in a thin line and cheeks red with rage. Richie recoiled and took a step back from Stan so quickly that he almost fell on his ass.

“Richard, get in the house _now!_ ” His dad sounded like he could barely contain himself.

“Hi, Mr. Tozier,” Stan said politely, although very awkwardly. “I just wanted to talk to your son for a minute or two.”

Wentworth ignored Stanley altogether. “Richard, last chance,” his father warned.

“Stan, you need to go now,” Richie murmured hurriedly.

“No, I won’t let you here with your dad!” Stan protested, whisper-shouting.

“Three…” Wentworth began to countdown.

“Go now!” Richie’s voice was getting panicked, his fear seeping into his tone.

“Two…”

“Stanny, go home! It’s not a joke!” His whispers were rushed and panicked.

“I won’t leave you alone,” Stan stated, grabbing Richie’s wrist. His expression was so pure and full of good intentions that it made Richie’s heart swell as well as skip a beat in panic. As much as Richie was deeply touched by Stan’s insistence, it was getting dangerous and his best friend needed to get away now.

“One.” Wentworth grabbed Richie’s other arm and pulled him out of Stan’s grasp violently. Richie watched shock shift into fear and then into protective anger in the other boy’s eyes, so fast that it almost blurred into one single emotion. Stan took a step forward as Richie was being dragged forcefully back into his house.

“Stan…” Richie said pleadingly, his voice cracking. “Please don’t. _Please_.”

Richie saw Stan’s conflicted expression just as his dad tugged him inside and slammed the door shut. He hoped to God the other teen would listen to him and drop it. Wentworth locked the door and the teen heard Stan pounding on it and shouting his name.

“Explain yourself now, boy,” His father said, eyes shining dangerously.

“It was nothing, dad, I swear-”

“Don’t lie to me, you fucking queer!” Richie instinctively flinched when Wentworth raised his voice, but the hand on his wrist kept him from backtracking and was squeezing harder. The pounding on the door stopped

“Stan’s just a friend, I swear to God- Ow dad, my wrist!” He exclaimed when a sudden pain exploded in his arm as his father tightened his hold.

“Fucking pussy.” A punch landed on his cheek and his head flew to the side harshly. He felt nothing at first and then a sharp sting ignited the whole left side of his face. His eyes immediately watered, but he refused to let his dad see him cry. Richie wasn’t even mad: if he got beat up, it was because he deserved it. He couldn’t think of another reason why his own father would hit him. He did something wrong, he got paid back, end of the story.

Wentworth’s fist collided with his nose this time, way more fiercely. His engagement ring ripped the skin of the bridge of Richie’s nose. The punches ran down on the teen until he couldn’t hold back his whimpers of pain. He hated himself as soon as the first escaped his lips. He wasn’t weak, dammit!

“Dad, let me go!” He cried out, his voice becoming more high-pitched as the words poured out of his mouth. A particularly violent hit made him lose his balance and Wentworth had no other choice than to let go of his son’s wrist. Richie fell on his back with a gasp, the air getting knocked out of his lungs sharply. He struggled to take in a real breath and it made him panic more than he would ever admit when it didn’t work.

“Get up like a real man,” His father scowled. Richie pushed himself away, his heels desperately sliding over the wooden floor in an effort to put distance between the two of them. Wentworth marched up to him, delivered a rageful kick in his ribs that made him curl up in a small ball, then spat on his face.

“Faggot,” He sneered before going back into the kitchen. Richie heard him crack the lid of a new beer bottle.

The teen scrambled to his feet and ran to his room without losing time. He crashed down on his bed and buried himself in his blankets, trying desperately to warm himself. He felt cold all over, like he was empty. It was like his dad’s hate hollowed him out and took out every ounce of life out of his icy body. Why couldn’t they just love him? What had he done that was so horrible that even his own parents couldn’t stand to see his face?

Sometimes, he wondered what would happen if he died. Would it be some kind of liberation for both his entourage and himself? He would finally be set free from the cage that was his miserable life and maybe, maybe he would find real happiness in death, something life could no longer offer him. He would be a free spirit, no longer restrained by the cold claws that seemed to grip his soul tighter every day. And his parents would finally be able to reach their own happiness if he wasn’t there anymore. Or, it would just change nothing at all. He would die unhappy and it would stay that way, freezing, and dark. His parents wouldn’t even notice and would continue to drown themselves in alcohol.

Richie wrapped his arms around his midsection, trying to imagine his friends hugging him and murmuring in his ear just how important he was and how much they loved him. The saddest thing was that it really succeeded to bring him some comfort. He broke down in loud sobs and cried himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy! Do not hesitate to leave a comment, it gives me life!! I love you all


	3. Run Without Limits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy! Here's a new chapter! I don't think there's any major trigger warnings, but there are mentions of underage smoking, homophobic slurs, alcoholism and vomiting. Proceed with caution. Hope you enjoy!!!! ;)

“Bev, I’m the worst friend in the entire universe!” Stan exclaimed in the phone, voice broken and tears slipping from his brown eyes.

When Richie had been dragged in his house by his father, Stan had pounded on the door for a good five minutes to no avail. He had considered breaking the window with a rock but he had been too scared of what would happen. What if he made it worse for Richie? Finally, he had ridden home, pedaling faster than he ever did. He had rushed in his house in a mind-numbing state of panic and he had dialed Beverly’s number without thinking about it.

“Bevvy, I’m a monster, Richie… Rich-”

“Woah, Stan, calm down. Take deep breaths with me, okay?” Bev said calmly and softly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Richie, his dad… Oh my God, I let it happen, what kind of horrible person am I? I don’t know what happened but his dad was really… angry and- Jesus Bev, I have a bad feeling about this!” Stan explained through his cries, contrasting with his usually collected and controlled personality. This was all his fault and he knew it. He let it happen, Goddammit! Once again, he’d been too scared to act and Richie was without a doubt paying the price.

“Stan, it’s alright, I’ll go see him. I’ll call you back just after.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Stan thought at that moment that Beverly was an angel. He hung up, tugging at his curls as inevitable guilt crept up on him.

🎈🎈🎈

Richie woke up with a start, the sleep being ripped out of him faster than a snap of his fingers. The tears still on his cheeks from earlier felt like dried glue and his eyelids were heavy. His ribs were sore, his face burned and there was a headache throbbing in his skull. He pressed two fingers to his temples in an attempt to lessen the pain pulsing behind his eyes. A sound broke the silence of the house.

_Tap._ Richie’s gaze immediately drifted to his window. The sky was as dark as ink, so he guessed it was pretty late.

_Tap._ He didn’t feel like going out of bed: there was some sort of pressure keeping him stuck on the mattress. He didn’t really want to wake up in that kind of reality.

_Tap. Tap._ Annoyed, he pulled himself out of his blanket with great efforts, grunting as the ache in his side flared up. The cold air of the room made him shiver. He shuffled to his window and looked down. Beverly Marsh was standing on the grass, throwing mints at his window. Richie opened the glass panel and leaned over.

“Hiya!” Bev waved, her hair bouncing around her head airily.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He hissed.

“Come down here,” Beverly gestured for him to join her.

“What, no way! I was sleeping.”

“C’mon Rich, it’s only 8 PM.” The worst was that he was telling the truth.

“I don’t feel like hanging out. Why don’t you go see Ben instead?”

“Because you need me right now and Ben is doing just fine,” She argued, throwing a mint in his face teasingly. Richie just wasn’t in the mood. It’s not that he didn’t want to see Bev, but he just wanted to be alone. _Stop lying to yourself, dumbass._

“I don’t need you.” _Liar, liar, liar._

“Bullshit! C’mon, don’t tell me I just wasted all my mints for you, Tozier.” She threw her hands up in the air. Richie didn’t want her to waste time on him. He didn’t deserve her attention after he’d left the Losers without explanations like a fucking dick earlier.

“Bevvy…”

“Richie…” She mimicked his tone. “Just five minutes, please.”

Richie sighed and hopped over the windowsill. After all, she’d come all the way up to his house, so as well make her waste her time for something rather than nothing. He slid over the rooftop and landed roughly beside her. He grimaced as a flash of pain spiked in his ribs. He hunched over slightly and Beverly approached him slowly. She brushed her warm fingers over his cheek, where a bruise was forming. She trailed her fingertips over the cut on the bridge of his nose. She lifted the hand Richie had clasped over his side and grazed the spot over his T-shirt. Finally, she took his injured hand and rubbed little circles on the base of his thumb.

It was like some sort of ritual: every time Beverly’s father had hurt her or Richie’s dad beat him up, they would caress each other’s wounds to try to make it more bearable. Their parents would mark them up with their punches and the two teens would try to ease it with a loving touch. A gesture of hate against a gesture of love. It was their way to comfort each other. The principle was to transform the bad souvenir into a new one, gentle and caring.

It didn’t work for Richie tonight.

Bev let go of his hand and fished a pack of Marlboros. She extracted two cigarettes of the carton box and offered one to him without speaking. Richie accepted it with a thankful smile and took a drag, enjoying the taste of nicotine on his tongue. Beverly always knew what he needed without asking. The feeling of smoke filling up his lungs in heavy clouds was recomforting.

The night was starless and the wind was crisp, lashing at their cheeks. The sky looked like the surface of a calm lake, immobile and profound. It was as black as polished obsidian and seemed never-ending, the horizon line blurring and melting, erasing the delimitation between Earth and space. It was on nights like this that Richie had no difficulties to believe in the concept of infinity. The distances seemed interminable, stretching and stretching to a point the human race couldn’t comprehend. To infinity. It was a strange concept, when Richie thought about it. What exactly defined infinity? The fact of saying that it had no limits and that it never stopped was in a certain way putting a limit to it. Richie wished he could know.

The quietness was broken by Wentworth’s heinous screams. _Great, fucking great._ His parents were fighting again, so hard that he and Bev could hear them from outside. Richie supposed they loved each other at one point, but he couldn’t tell if it was still the case. Probably not. They would yell at each other more often than not, but they still lived together. Well, if you could call it that: his dad was barely home and his mom was barely conscious at all.

Beverly flicked her cigarette on the ground, grabbed his arm and started running. Richie followed, his own cigarette escaping his frozen fingers. They were running as if their lives depended on it, they were running like there were no limits. They were running to infinity. The feeling of the wind whipping their skin and ruffling their hair was heady. The gusts were making Richie’s curls fly around, rolling up around the strands of hair like some kind of scalp massage. The bite of the bleak air made him feel alive and free.

Richie ran, leaving his problems behind for a while. It made him feel powerful, gave him a sense of control. It made him believe he could outrun everything that went wrong in his life and that clung to him like a second skin. It made him believe he could get rid of them and run toward something better, something that would leave the pain in the past. It made him believe things would be alright.

He suddenly burst out into laughter, hilarity winning him over. Beverly’s laughs resonated beside him. They continued to run, holding each other’s hands. Richie felt like he was flying. A wide grin painted itself over his lips. At this point, they were both screaming with laughter, not knowing where they were going but tasting for the first time the feeling of liberty. Richie almost tripped over his own feet, but Bev only tugged on his arm harder. They accelerated, going faster and faster. They laughed harder too. Richie wished this moment could be eternal.

His chuckles died down, his smile faded and he stopped dead in his tracks. Bev turned around to look at him. The knowledge that nothing lasts forever hit him square in the face. His problems caught up with him. God, he was so stupid to believe he could escape them, that the future reserved him something better. It was all bullshit. He was doomed to this kind of life, and no matter how fast he ran, it would always, always come back to get him. He was condemned to pursue something he would never have forever. His eyes filled with tears as he collapsed in the girl’s arms, breaking down in sobs. The euphoria from seconds ago was nowhere to be seen.

The two best friends slid down to the ground, in the middle of the road. He held into Bev like a lifeline. When was the last time someone had hugged him? He couldn’t remember. She started running her hand through his disheveled curls soothingly. Richie cried harder and she stayed silent, knowing that being there and offering her comfort was what the other needed and that it was enough that way.

Richie wished he could hit a playback button and go back to seconds ago, when they were running and when he believed things could get better. He wished he could put things on pause at that exact moment, capturing forever the way he had genuinely believed he could feel happiness again.

“You know what?” Beverly said, wiping Richie’s tears away. “One day, we’ll burn this shitty town to the ground and we’ll run away. And we’ll never look back. Never.” Richie allowed himself to believe her for a moment. He allowed himself to have hope because he knew he would fall apart if he didn’t.

“Go to hell, Derry!” Beverly screamed at the darkness, at this apathetic and cursed town.

“Yeah, go to hell, Derry!” Richie repeated, yelling as well. It was liberating in a way he didn’t think was possible. He stood up, throwing middle fingers around.

“Fuck you! Fuck you!!” He shouted toward a sewer drain. Something lifted off of his chest. He felt lighter, closer to the sky than to the ground. He threw his arms up in the air and spun around, something new coursing through his veins. The heartache that never seemed to leave him receded the tiniest bit, but a bit nonetheless.

Bev and Rich walked back to Richie’s house after a while, holding each other’s waist. Richie loved Beverly so much that he didn’t know what he would do if she wasn’t there. Probably crash and burn. He buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“Thank you,” He murmured. She held him tighter in response.

When they arrived at their destination, Bev spun Richie around and took both of his hands.

“Rich… You know you don’t have to go back there. My aunt wouldn’t mind if you came over.” Richie really considered it for a moment, but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t impose his presence to Beverly’s aunt like that. He refused to be a burden to anyone other than himself.

He eyed the house resignedly. “It’s okay, Bevvy. Goodnight,” He said as he walked to his window.

“Wait!” She caught up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at her. “I have a question for you.”

“Go on.”

“Are you… Do you love Stan?” The world came crashing down at the question. His eyes widened almost comically, reaching huge proportions behind his glasses. The realization hit him so hard that he staggered back. He felt so hot suddenly, like he was burning from the inside out. It felt like his body was going to implode. Panic bubbled up in his chest, threatening to spill out at his feet. His thoughts all bumped into each other and nothing was clear anymore.

“What?” He breathed out, completely confused.

“Are you in love with Stanley?” Bev’s gaze was worried.

“No!” He exclaimed way too hurriedly. “I mean no, are you crazy?” He turned back to his window and started to climb up.

“Wait, Richie!”

“What?” He said exasperatedly.

“I was just asking. I believe you if you say no.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I love you no matter what, y’know?”

“I love you too. Goodnight.” Richie was burning alive on the inside.

“Goodnight!” Richie watched as Beverly slowly disappeared into the night. She turned around at the last minute and he stared at her blankly. She continued her way down to her house after a moment.

He entered his room, closed the window and flopped on his bed. Realization struck him a second time. _Fuck. Fucking shit._ He was in love. He was in love with Stanley Uris. It all made so much more sense now. How his heart fluttered every time Stan touched him, how he always worried more about him than the others, how he loved admiring his face, how he’d been so _jealous_. How it was always Stan, Stan, and Stan. He just thought it was because they were best friends. He had been sure that it was normal, that every boy felt that way for their best buddies. At least, he convinced himself of it.

Panic seized his throat. How did Beverly know? How did she know when he didn’t himself? Was it evident? Was it written on his fucking face that he was a fag? His dad always beat him up because he thought his son was a queer, but Richie had never thought that Wentworth could have been right. This whole time, his father had been right and Richie had been none the wiser. He always believed he deserved the punches, but he never thought the homophobic slurs were justified. Now he knew that they were. All along, he’d been a fucking fairy, and everybody knew except him. He’d heard plenty of rumors that you could beat the gay out of someone, so that meant that his dad had, in fact, good intentions. He only wanted to help his son. Richie had wished several times that he could just punch his dad back but Wentworth had only been trying to set him back to normal. It was never his dad’s fault, but his own.

He sat abruptly on his bed and clasped a hand over his mouth, his thoughts swirling in his head like a hurricane. He raced to the bathroom and collapsed on his knees near the toilet. He retched, his stomach contracting, and proceeded to vomit violently. He gripped the toilet seat so hard that his knuckles turned white.

_I deserved every hit. I am in love with Stanley Uris. Beverly Marsh knew before I did._

These three thoughts flashed before his eyes non-stop, even when he finished dry-heaving. He leaned back against the cold wall, head between his knees. He tugged at his curls, panicked, desperate and _scared._ Tears slipped from his eyes for the millionth time this day. After a while, he fell asleep on the bathroom’s floor, emotionally drained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading all the way here! Love you all, and do not hesitate to leave a comment, it is really the best thing that can happen to me!


	4. Love Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I know it's been a while since I've updated, I had my exam week and I studied like crazy. My brain cells are officially dead! I just hope there are still some people reading this story. Oki, anyway, enjoy!!
> 
> TW: Alcoholism, underage drinking

“Richie, can you come here please?” Richie abruptly stopped brushing his teeth, surprised, as his father called for him. Hope immediately filled his chest. It was the first time in two years that Went called him ‘Richie’ and not ‘Richard’. It was also the first time he asked something to his son gently, going as far as saying ‘please’.

Richie couldn’t believe what he heard and he went down the stairs, grinning widely. He had decided when he had woken up that everything that happened the night before should be forgotten. Must be forgotten. So, he pushed the fact that he’s in love with his best friend down into the darkest corner of his mind. Love didn’t matter so much anyway: he survived fifteen years without it, didn’t he? Stan and he had been best friends since they were four: it could as well stay that way. He bottled up every realization from last night, threw the key away and stashed it where it couldn’t ever be discovered.

His smile almost slipped from his face when he saw his dad sitting at the table, face hidden behind a newspaper. He remembered the ugly words Wentworth had spat at him the previous evening, and he had to make an extra effort to keep his emotions on check. He pushed them a little deeper.

“Hello, son,” His father lowered the newspaper. Richie beamed at him. He called him his son! He felt a laugh bubble up in his throat.

“Hey, dad!” He waved a little too enthusiastically. When his dad smiled warmly back at him, he had to ask himself if he was dreaming.

“Can you do me a favor?” Wentworth reached for him and Rich flinched a little, but his father only patted him affectionately on the shoulder. Richie felt like he had just received the best of all the Christmas presents possible. He couldn’t stop himself from beaming stupidly. His dad was finally paying attention to him. Even better, he seemed happy to see _him_.

“Yeah, anything!” He exclaimed. Wentworth seemed satisfied. Richie thought maybe he had healed overnight. Maybe the label on his forehead had disappeared and he was normal again and his father was happy for him. He wouldn’t have to be beaten up again and Wentworth could finally have the pleasure to have a clean and straight boy. His dad finally had the chance to _love_ him. Richie felt wings grow up on his back. He was floating on Cloud Nine.

Wentworth handed him a small glass bottle. It was filled to the half, more or less. “Can you taste that for me, son?” Went glanced at him expectantly.

Richie swallowed a lump in his throat when he read the label: Vodka, forty percent of alcohol. He actually never drank alcohol. He saw what it did to people(his parents) and honestly, he didn’t want to try. Drunk people made his skin crawl. He hated them: alcohol made them harsh and violent, dangerous even(like his parents). But, he really didn’t want to deceive his father when he was being so nice to him, and after all, a sip wouldn’t kill him.

“Of course, dad,” He answered, grabbing the bottle. He took a swig, wanting to make his dad proud. He barely succeeded to suppress a gag but broke into a coughing fit instead. The strong liquid burned his throat, setting it on fire. The sensation was awful, it was bitter and acid and disgusting. How the fuck could people love that? How the hell could his parents prefer this over him?

He glanced over to his father through squinted eyes, a violent cough still rattling his lungs. All the kindness had left the adult’s face. Richie felt his blood freeze in his veins. _This was a trap_ , he realized.

“Drink it all,” Wentworth ordered, voice cold and severe.

“What, I can’t, I’m underage!” Richie tried to protest, rubbing a hand over his neck to try and ease the burning sensation.

“Do I look like I care? When I tell you to do something, boy, you fucking obey. Is that clear?”

“But why?” Richie didn’t understand. It was his father’s favorite liquor: why would he want _him_ to drink it?

“It’ll toughen you up, put hair on your chest. I won’t have a pussy as a son, I’m telling ya. Now, is that clear?”

Richie stared at the vodka warily. Probably for too long, because Wentworth slammed his left hand on the table. The sudden sound startled Richie and he took hold of the bottle, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“What the fuck are you waiting for, fag?” Richie winced at the word and started to drink reluctantly. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take big gulps to get it over with as soon as possible. It was like swallowing acid: his throat was on fire and it hurt. It hurt so much that he had to take a break at some point, panting heavily. His eyes watered at the taste and he wanted to stop.

Wentworth backhanded him and pain exploded in his already bruised cheek from yesterday. He resumed, absorbing the whole thing. The empty bottle clang loudly on the floor when he dropped it, wiping his mouth. He was out of breath and he was completely panicked. He could already feel the damn liquid contaminate his blood, intoxicate his body. He wanted to cry but he forced the tears the stay in his eyes.

“Go see your mother now,” His dad told him, watching him with unhidden disdain. Richie listened and walked over to the couch. His mom was slumped on the cushions, smoking a cigarette. Her eyes were vacant and hollow, staring in the distance at nothing in particular. Maybe at the life she never got to have.

She reached out to him and caressed his arm, stroking her thumb over his skin. She pulled the cigarette out of her mouth with her other hand and brought down simply the lit cancer stick on her son’s arm without a word. Richie didn’t even have the time to react before agony flared up on his arm as his own mother extinguished her cigarette on his flesh. He screamed, ripping his lungs out. He felt the skin sizzling and the smell of burnt flesh was horrid.

Maggie Tozier lifted her hand and flicked the cigarette away carelessly. Richie immediately yanked his arm away from his mom, a whimper coming from the back of his throat. Maggie didn’t even look at him. Maybe she didn’t even realize it was her son standing beside her.

“You’re too loud,” She slurred. Well, it looked like she knew it was him, finally.

Richie cradled his injured arm protectively and scanned the burn. There was a yellowish-white circle surrounded by raw-looking red skin. Richie guessed it could have been worse. He snapped back to reality with a jump when the phone rang. He picked it up before his father could get mad, busting his hip on the corner of the table in the process.

“Hey, Rich!” A voice exclaimed happily on the other line. Richie was jealous of whoever it was. He wished he could feel happiness too.

“Who’s this?” He asked, confused.

“It’s me. Stan,” The boy sounded wary. “Do you want to hang out at my house? My parents don’t mind if you spend the night. I have a new comic I absolutely need to show you and I still need to talk to you so… Richie?” Stan’s voice got fearful toward the end of the sentence and Richie realized he forgot to answer. His thoughts seemed to be scattered all around the place and he wasn’t able to piece them back together. His mind process was sluggish, contrasting with his usually constantly whirling thoughts. The pain he felt in his arm transformed into a dull ache.

“What?” He really couldn’t remember what Stan had said. It was weird: it was like his mind and his body were disconnected. It was harder than usual to form words, not that it stopped him, but it worried him slightly because normally he didn’t even have to think about what to say. The words escaped his big mouth without his permission.

“Do you want to come to my house?” Stan repeated. Richie thought about being alone with Stanny and his heart swelled. His hand clenched and unclenched excitedly. A sudden urge to giggle overtook him.

“Why are you laughing?” Richie stopped as suddenly as he began. He imagined Stan’s face and he smiled helplessly. It wasn’t fair that his best friend was so beautiful. How was he supposed to _not_ fall in love when Stan was just so gorgeous? Richie buried his face in his free hand and shoved the thoughts away. _Girls are cuter anyway,_ he tried to convince himself.

“Richie, you still there?” Yeah, women were wonderful with their long, rose-perfumed hair, their gentle hands, and their full-lips. But Richie preferred pine-scenting curls and thin lips. It had nothing to do with boys though.

“Rich, are you okay? Richie!” Stan’s tone was rushed and worried, borderline frantic. He had a bad feeling.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, Stanley the Manley,” Richie said finally and hung up quickly, butterflies in his stomach and heart doing flips. He knew it was wrong, but the blurrier his thoughts got, the less he cared.

He walked out of his house and stumbled to his bike. He threw his leg over and hopped over the seat, almost losing his balance. As he began to pedal away, he remarked that the world was swaying in front of him. He was dizzy and his head was spinning. He discovered soon enough that he wasn’t able to ride in a straight line. The irony of the situation made him laugh. There was nothing straight about a fucking faggot like him. Nothing seemed important though and he felt light and heavy at the same time. He couldn’t remember why he had been sad, hurting and scared. Then, he thought he understood why his parents liked alcohol so much. It made him feel so good, so careless and worry-less. He could even say he felt brave, like his fears had been wiped off.

Big snowflakes began falling from the sky and Richie chuckled gleefully when one landed on his nose. It tickled and Richie absolutely adored the fact that a little nothing like this could procure him some comfort.

Soon enough, he was standing on Stanley’s porch and knocking on the door. Stan opened and gasped as soon as he saw his best friend.

“Rich, your face! Bev told me you were okay!”

“I’m okay, it doesn’t even hurt,” Richie reassured and he wasn’t even lying. He felt nothing at all except his heart pounding wildly at the sight of the curly-haired boy. Richie flicked his own cheek. “See? Doesn’t hurt.” Stan looked livid. He stared at him, mouth agape.

“What?” Richie didn’t see a problem. He pushed past Stan, letting himself in the house.

“Richie, are you feeling alright?” Stan scrunched up his nose when Richie passed beside him and narrowed his eyes like it would help him read the other boy better.

“I’ve never been better! I’m super hyperfine! Why Stanny? You care about meeee?” The dark-haired boy said joyfully in a sing-song voice. Stan was tempted to make a sarcastic comment but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that Richie wasn’t as okay as he said. His joy seemed exaggerated and fake, in the sense that it looked like Rich had only painted a layer of happiness over his true emotions. Stan thought he looked a bit drunk, but he couldn’t possibly be. He knew Richie would never touch alcohol after everything that happened with his parents.

“Yes, I care about you,” He said seriously, looking Richie in the eyes. “And you know it.”

Richie felt his heart skip a beat and a wave of warmth washed over him. He almost fainted in excitement when Stan grabbed his hand and lead him to his bedroom. Stan’s room was obviously a model of order and cleanliness. It looked like an ad for a house furniture store. His bed was made, the pillows neatly disposed on the mattress. There weren’t any clothes on the floor: Richie could bet all his money(a miserable dollar) that they were all meticulously folded in the drawers of his wardrobe. His books were organized in alphabetical order on the shelves, the posters were all placed in a straight line and the bird pictures and polaroids of the Losers were all glued to the wall above his desk. Richie wouldn’t be surprised if Stan told him that even his socks were classified by their colors.

Rich sat on the bed, crinkling the perfectly-laid sheets. Stan looked through his mixtapes and settled over Richie’s favorite one: it was a rock mixtape, but most of the soundtracks were Buddy Holly’s songs. Stan observed the other teen as he put the music on. Richie was restless: he was bouncing on the mattress and fidgeting with a pencil he found on his desk. He was glancing all around the room frantically like he couldn’t keep his gaze on something for more than ten seconds.

Stan sat next to Richie and the boy in question leaned in and rested his head in his best friend’s lap. Richie closed his eyes peacefully and seemed to calm down, except that his fingers didn’t stop drumming on his thigh. Stan hesitated and began running his fingers through Richie’s curls. His hair was soft and fluffy and Stan almost got distracted enough to forget what he wanted to talk about to his best friend in the first place.

“Okay, so,” He broke the silence and lowered the volume of the music. “I just wanted to explain what was going on with David and-”

“Oh no!” Richie interrupted, sounding disappointed.

“What’s the matter?” Stan wasn’t so sure what Richie meant.

“Not him again.” Richie opened his eyes and looked up at Stan.

“What? Rich, I know I should’ve told you, but he isn’t even important. I don’t even love hi-”

“Why did you kiss him then?” Richie cut in again, tone accusatory but mostly sad. “I thought you liked girls.”

“I kissed him because… because I wanted to know. I wanted to confirm that I really liked boys,” Stan explained, his cheeks reddening and his forehead sweating. He’d never said that out loud before. Richie’s eyes kept flickering back and forth between him and his own hands. He was basically vibrating in his lap and he looked like he couldn’t bring himself to focus. As the silence stretched, Stan’s fear grew. What if Richie hated him? What if he got scared to be contaminated?

On the other side, Richie’s brain was running a mile a minute. His mind was in overdrive and he wasn’t certain if he had heard well.

“So, you’re gay,” He stated so simply that Stan let out the breath he was holding.

“Yeah.” Stan inhaled, urging himself to calm down and relax.

“You didn’t tell me.” Richie sounded hurt, but his face was blank. His wide eyes were searching for Stan’s.

“I wasn’t sure before I kissed Dav-”

“Why him?”

“Because he was the only one I knew who was willing to kiss me. I was also trying to get someone else out of my head,” Stan admitted, because at this point, why not? “This person is obsessing me and I was trying to, I don’t know, move on?”

“Who?” Was Stan dreaming or Richie seemed… jealous?

“It’s not important.” The Jewish boy looked away, a blush creeping on his pale cheeks. “It’s not possible anyway.” Stan shrugged resignedly.

“I would’ve done it,” Richie pouted. Stan’s hand froze in the other’s hair.

“What do you mean?” He said slowly, dreadfully. Richie met his eyes and something crossed his face too quickly for Stan to decipher it.

Richie raised his head and put a hand on the base of Stan’s neck. He closed the distance between him and his best friend. He did it on impulse, without thinking, The alcohol in his system seemed to have erased all of his walls and he couldn’t bring himself to care about the consequences. His brain was foggy and he had no idea what he was doing. But Stan was kissing him back and the moment was magic. The cage where he had so carefully locked up his feelings exploded, shattering in thousands of pieces. It bubbled up to the surface and spilled out of his mouth.

He was kissing Stan and all his efforts to bury his love fell down the drain. He felt it and it was stronger than ever. Suddenly, he didn’t care if he wasn’t normal: if he could feel something like this, it was more than enough. He could take a couple more hits from his father, continue to be ignored by his mother and endure the bullies if it meant he could have love.

Stan made him feel alive, free and cared about. _Loved._ The sensations were overwhelming, but it wasn’t enough. Richie wanted more, he wanted his dreams to come true. He pulled away, breaking the kiss.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY AGAIN!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'll try to update soon! And I know you don't care but yesterday it was Valentine's Day, as you all know, and someone asked me to be their girlfriend!!! I said yes, so i'm finally in a relationship!!!! Sorry for that, i'm just happy!! 
> 
> ah and don't forget to leave a comment, it makes me so happy(i'm not even exaggerating: when i'm sad i go read the comments you amazing readers left under my works and it immediately improves my mood)
> 
> Love you all!

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyy! It's me again!! Like I always say(or more write, whatever), I hope you enjoyed, and seriously, do not hesitate to leave a comment. It makes my day when I read one!! It can just be random letters, or a sound or just an emotion, and it's perfect like this. No need to write an essay XD
> 
> Thanks for reading, love you all ❤️


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